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I have had the pleasure over the past few years of creating the flavor for the world of the game line Never Going Home (publisher Wet Ink Games) through my short fiction and inventing historical artifacts. This year, we wanted to stretch the magic of the game a little further, and I had to the
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Astrid watched from the shadows near the house as her father and Sigmund stacked the wood for the bonfire. Aelric’s chain flashed in the fire light of the torch she held. Ljót was at his side, her arms snaked around his waist. Astrid smiled to herself. It was a good match. He would be happy
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She knew it was a dream when she saw the Skuld smile—a pretty smile, not her typical sad, boney smile, stiff and sugared with regret. No, this smile she was given was one of pride, without any accompanying guilt or grief. A warm smile. A smile that illuminated all her dark places. “You did
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When Astrid woke, she was in the grove. Her body was cool and stiff. She sat up, trailing her hand across the dew gathered on her skirt. Mist rolled over the ground. The Skuld was not with her. She had come to the grove after Lodvik stormed away from her. It pulled her
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Sigmund lay awake in the dark, fingering the chain around his neck. The sun would come up soon; the sky was already lightening, the first pale light of dawn peeking through the curtain. He and Magnhild would stay on the farm. It was unusual for the man to take the woman into his family
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Readers rejoice! You get an extra blog post this week because some things I’ve been thinking about for awhile can no longer be left unsaid. Last night, I had the great joy of attending a production of Jesus Christ Superstar, a coproduction of Drag Daddy Productions and the Chicken Coop Theatre Company. There were gender
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Astrid watched the crowd from afar, mingling and celebrating with Sigmund and Magnhild on the green beside the goat pen and the barn. When her mother had come home from her talks with Ranog a week ago, her father had wasted no time before he visited the black smith. The chain Leif had made
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Astrid closed her eyes that night, wanting for sleep, but the spirits were restless. They were arguing. The spirits never wholly agreed on anything. For every spirit who encouraged, there was one who tried to convince you otherwise. For every wise voice in the chaos, there was one who was always irrational. Then there were
The Quick and the Dead
Short stories. Creative experiments. Ideas that might not pan out.
The Quick and the Dead 